“She weeps—O well, what’s that—she’s always rather mournful!”
They do not know the cause for tears upwelling,
Ah, not to them in words the truth I’m telling.
How lives the tree that in the sand is growing,
When sun and dew no bounties are bestowing?
How live I then, when in the day so weary
My sweetheart comes not to my heart so dreary?
THE MAID TO HER LAGGARD LOVER
Hesitate no more, Beloved;
Weigh not gain and loss—